


Five Across the Eyes

by hangdog



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, F/F, Fingerfucking, Molestation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 02:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15209153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangdog/pseuds/hangdog
Summary: Moira victimizes Brigitte, and Brigitte loves it.





	Five Across the Eyes

Moira is not a pub person. Moira is not even really a drinker, precisely because of the hilarity with which everyone responds when they learn of an Irish teetotaler.

So why, then, is she so magnetized towards this particular pub? Moira came to Berlin for an infectious disease conference, not to enjoy the night life. She is on her way back to her hotel when she chances a look into a corner pub and sees a tall, muscular girl punching a bearded lumberjack in the face, only to receive a devastating uppercut to her jaw in return.

Moira stops and stares as the girl’s pretty head snaps back. The girl spits blood. Her opponent makes to follow up with a left hook, but the girl catches his fist in her hand. She jerks him towards her and bashes his nose with her forehead.

Cheers and jeers erupt throughout the pub. Moira spots a woman weeping by the bar. The female bartender struggles to both comfort the patron and simultaneously dial the authorities. Moira begins to form a picture of what has happened: the girl has come to the crying woman’s defense.

The two fighters reaffirm Moira’s suspicions as they grapple in the center of the pub. The man yells in German about minding one’s own business, and the girl shouts back at him about respecting women. The girl speaks German with a Scandinavian lilt.

Moira does not want to get involved in any of this nonsense. This conflict is excessive, and the girl is acting out of a misguided sense of justice. If she wants to be an idiot and pick fights with big bruisers, then she should suffer the consequences of her actions.

The lumberjack winds up a fist and plants it in the girl’s stomach. The pub falls silent as the girl doubles over and falls to her knees. It was a devastating blow, and the brawl looks to be over.

The girl lunges forward with a scream and tackles the lumberjack around the ankles, cutting his legs out from under him. They wrestle on the floor, slamming their fists into whichever parts of each other that they can reach.

Moira hears the bartender breathlessly describing the situation to the police. Moira has no faith that the authorities will make the proper call in this situation. Suddenly, she can’t bear the thought of seeing the girl jailed for protecting another woman. She will have to educate the girl about cause and effect herself.

Moira uses her sharp elbows and long arms to push her way through the crowd. By the time she reaches the fight, the pair is out of breath on the floor, weakly swinging at one another as they bleed from several discrete wounds. The girl’s bottom lip has swelled to a comical size, and the lumberjack’s nose looks like raw, ground meat.

Moira clears her throat, commanding the attention of both fighters with her magnificent presence. She is wearing her custom-tailored Vantablack suit. The material traps all light from escaping around her body, so that her face and hands flash in theatrical contrast against the void of her clothing. “Come along,” she orders in English, extending her hand to the girl. “Quickly, now.”

Even if the girl doesn’t understand, she takes Moira’s hand and staggers to her feet, as sweet and trusting as a lamb. Half the crowd, those that were likely rooting for the girl’s opponent to win, start to boo. The lumberjack staggers around, staunching the blood from his nose with his shirt.

“I’m not done with him,” says the girl, also in English. “He needs to apologize to the woman he hurt!”

“I think he’s learned his lesson,” Moira insists, but when she tries to tug the girl away, the girl roots herself to the floor, solid as a spruce. Moira does not have the patience for this. “Come along, now, before they punish your good deed.”

The girl shouts after the lumberjack in German, _“You don’t have the right to touch anybody!”_

Moira releases the girl, but only to put on her claws. The metallic row of blades clicks into place along the leather holster on Moira’s knuckles. “Look at me,” she barks. When the girl obeys, Moira slaps her across the face.

The hypodermic tips of Moira’s claws strike the girl’s cheek, injecting the sedative under her skin. The drug is fast-acting, but in the early stages, the girl’s sudden weakness can be explained for fatigue after her fight. She sways, and Moira takes her burly arm, wrapping it around Moira’s shoulders.

The girl doesn’t seem to realize what has happened. She follows Moira without resistance, aside from her boots dragging on the pavement as she loses coordination. Moira carries the girl a good distance from the scene of the crime, before the girl grows too weak and too heavy to support.

Moira pushes her quarry into an alley between two closed businesses. The girl’s back collides with a brick wall, and she slides to the ground, her eyes blinking separately.

Moira indulges in a good look at the handsome young woman. The girl’s shimmering red hair is a vibrant mane around her full, soft face. Even the bruises don’t hide her beauty, and as Moira marvels at the strength and vitality of her young body. The girl’s red shirt bares her midriff, exposing her abdominal muscles beneath a small swell of fat. She is wearing black cargo pants with pockets from her hips to her knees. The objects within the pockets stand out against her thick, round thighs. Moira sees the outlines of various wrenches and screwdrivers, nuts and bolts, clippers and spools of wire.

Moira looks at the utility pockets full of tools, and has the unnerving sense that what she is about to do will be a grave mistake. Really, at this point, anything that happens is a mistake, but Moira has already put the events in motion.

Moira crouches down beside the insensible girl and pushes a strand of hair away from the girl’s face. There is no response, so, emboldened, Moira presses her palm against the girl’s cheek. Moira’s hand travels as it pleases, questing down the girl’s neck, past the neckline of her shirt, caressing her ample chest. The girl is as buxom as she is brawny, and her tits are marvelously soft inside of her sensible sports bra.

As Moira pushes the girl’s shirt up over her chest, she spots a tattoo on the girl’s arm. She stares at the stylized image of a gear for a moment before recognition douses Moira’s libido in a cold shock of surprise.

The girl is a Lindholm. Moira recoils in horror and retreats to the other side of the alley. How could that ornery Swedish troll produce such lovely offspring? Surely his wife’s genes are the most powerful on the planet. Moira tries to remember everything she can about the mechanically-inclined family, but all she can picture are turrets tearing her apart with molten bullets when the patriarch learns what has happened to his youngest daughter.

She is the youngest, isn’t she? Moira looks back at the senseless girl and reassesses her scheme. She thinks back to the information she could once access in the Overwatch database, before the organization fell apart. This girl must have been a young child when it happened. Athena, Winston’s omniscient AI, might not even know about her. Talon certainly has nothing on record about a scrappy Lindholm whelp.

Baby Lindholm murmurs and stirs. The tiny dose of sedative is wearing off. Moira prepares her thespian charm.

“Wake up, darling,” prompts Moira, patting Lindholm’s tattooed arm. “Is your head feeling better?”

Lindholm’s brown eyes slowly come into focus. Moira watches as the differently-sized pupils flex and shrink to match one another. “Who are you?” Lindholm mutters, taking in the older woman perched on one knee before her.

“Moira, at your service.” Moira sweeps her arms out to the sides. “When I saw how bravely you defended that woman in the pub, I had to step in on your behalf.” Moira widens her eyes in an imitation of concern. “You took a few blows to the head back there. Can you remember what happened?”

“I don’t remember how I got here,” Lindholm answers. She bites her lip, flinching as her teeth encounter the bruise. “Ow! That was dumb.”

“I won’t argue that.” Moira is accustomed to traveling with first aid. She snaps a cooling pack in half to activate the temperature change and offers it to Lindholm, who presses it to her face and sighs in relief.

“Thanks. That’s much better.” Lindholm offers her strong, warm hand to Moira in greeting. “Name’s Brigitte Lindholm. Looks like I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Moira, as her inner devil dances a gleeful jig. She is still holding Brigitte’s hand in hers, and she strokes the girl’s wrist with her fingertips. “You’re one hell of a fighter.”

Brigitte turns as red as her hair. “Thanks,” she repeats. Embarrassed as she is, she doesn’t try to take her hand back from Moira. “You saw the whole thing?”

“Everything.” Moira sidles closer on her knees. “I wish I had someone like you to go clubbing with. I would never be afraid again.”

“Oh, well,” Brigitte laughs nervously, pressing her back against the building behind her, “you look like you can take care of yourself!”

“Mostly, I can.” Moira takes the risk of touching Brigitte’s cheek with her hand, just as she did when the girl was unconscious. Now, Brigitte is free to move away, but she doesn’t. “I like someone to take care of me, now and again.”

Brigitte lets Moira kiss her around the cooling pack. The girl is too shocked to respond at first. Moira correctly hypothesizes that pulling the girl’s tongue into her mouth and sucking hard will catalyze some sort of reaction. Brigitte squeaks and grabs Moira’s shoulders in her hands.

“Sorry,” Moira says, pulling away. Brigitte follows her, holding Moira’s shoulders in place so that she can resume the kiss. Brigitte tastes like she has recently eaten dessert. Moira chases bits of sugar around Brigitte’s silky mouth. Brigitte’s swollen lower lip feels puffy and distended, so Moira avoids it as best as she can, lapping her tongue against the top of Brigitte’s palette.

Brigitte must be feeling shocks of pain as Moira’s mouth slides against her bruised lip. Still, she presses against Moira, squashing her tits into Moira’s flat chest. Moira grasps the girl against her body and explores her just as boldly as she did when Brigitte was unconscious and at her mercy. Fortunately, the girl now seems to enjoy how Moira’s long fingers stroke her flanks, appreciating the muscular definition of her back.

Brigitte shouts in surprise when Moira reaches into her waistband and palms the downy curls above her cunt. Moira starts to withdraw, but Brigitte grabs her wrist and squirms against her, too shy to look at Moira as she says, “Don’t stop.”

Moira nips at Brigitte’s jaw as she teases her clit in her fingertips. Brigitte’s pussy sweat allows Moira’s fingers to slide freely around the small nub. Brigitte humps Moira’s hand, grinding her pubic mound greedily against Moira’s fingers. As Moira dips lower, she feels moisture dewing the petals of Brigitte’s labia.

Moira extends her index finger into Brigitte’s cunt. The girl’s velvet flesh squeezes hungrily around Moira, tugging her more deeply inside. Moira obliges until she is knuckle-deep in Brigitte, and then she sends her middle finger to play with the first.

Brigitte gasps and bucks against Moira as her fingers stroke and pulse inside of Brigitte’s cunt. Moira crooks her fingers, alternately pressing up and down inside of Brigitte, stimulating every part that Moira’s fingers can reach until she feels the special span of ultrasensitive flesh in the depths of Brigitte’s silken chasm, behind her pubic bone.

Moira taps Brigitte’s g-spot, and is rewarded with a powerful clench of Brigitte’s vaginal muscles. Brigitte sits up on her knees, momentarily dislodging Moira from within her, before she sinks back down directly on top of Moira’s fingers.

Brigitte holds Moira’s shoulders in a bone-crushing grip as she fucks herself on Moira’s fingers. Despite their intensity, the position of Brigitte’s hands is too chaste for Moira’s liking. Moira withdraws her fingers in the service of extended pleasure. “What’s wrong?” Moira whispers in Brigitte’s ear. “Don’t you like me?”

Brigitte’s saucer-round eyes and flycatching mouth are just too cute in their innocent surprise. “I like you,” she blurts. Anything to make Moira finger her again. “Please, don’t stop. I’ll do you too, I promise!”

Wicked plans crystallize in Moira’s head. Brigitte would make an excellent Talon agent: strong, loyal, and convinced of her own righteousness. The girl’s mind seems simple enough to destroy and reform. Moira has already discovered the Achilles heel within Brigitte’s cunt. With the right guidance and suggestion, Brigitte could become Moira’s greatest experiment yet.

Reality lasers through the haze of Moira’s dreams. The Lindholm clan will have Moira’s head if she takes their baby away. She has already acted cleverly enough to mask her earlier transgression against the girl. If Moira plays her cards right, she can walk away from this with nothing but profit.

Moira licks the shell of Brigitte’s ear and blows cool air across the moistened skin. “Such a pretty girl." As intended, the compliment makes Brigitte blush and forget everything but her own self-consciousness. “Would you like to join me at my hotel?”

 

* * *

 

Moira pins Brigitte beneath her as she sits astride the girl’s fleshy, muscular body. Brigitte submits to whatever Moira asks of her, and now Moira is asking Brigitte to lick her pussy as Moira’s fingers work their magic within Brigitte.

Brigitte is a natural cuntlapper. She sticks her tongue out as far as she can, plumbing the tart depths of Moira’s cunt. When Moira grinds her pubis into Brigitte’s face, stimulating her clit with Brigitte’s chin, Brigitte gamely follows Moira with her mouth, her spry tongue questing like a little paladin after Moira’s bliss.

Moira rather enjoys having such a servile, attentive lover, especially one so easy to manipulate. Moira has only to wiggle her fingers inside of Brigitte to send the girl aflutter with wild pleasure. Brigitte’s eagerness and inexperience may mean that her sexual stamina is lacking, and so Moira refuses to allow the girl to cum before she does so herself.

When the spasms of Brigitte’s cunt grow more frequent, Moira withdraws her fingers, muffling Brigitte’s protests with a squeeze of her thighs around the girl’s face. Moira wipes Brigitte’s pussy juice into the girl’s auburn pubic hair. Her untrimmed muff is nearly as soft as the hair on Brigitte’s head, and Moira lowers her head to Brigitte’s cunt, breathing in the musky scent of her vital fluids.

Brigitte shrieks delightfully against Moira’s pussy when Moira begins to eat her out. Moira traps Brigitte with her thighs, reminding Brigitte of her purpose so that she does not lay dormant as Moira sucks on her clit. Brigitte’s mouth resumes its task, though she moves her tongue less inventively with Moira diverting her attention.

Moira allows the girl a bit of slack, because her pussy is a treat. Moira spreads Brigitte’s labia and gives her a master class in Moira’s preferred method of oral sex. She hopes that Brigitte is paying attention to how Moira is rubbing her face against Brigitte’s cunt and tonguefucking her as she drags her chin over Brigitte’s clit, but as Brigitte clutches her legs around Moira’s head and whimpers lustfully into Moira’s mound, Moira suspects that Brigitte is not focused on much at all.

Moira sinks her fingers into Brigitte’s thighs and attempts to prise her legs off of her head. Brigitte’s quadriceps are massive, and the muscles lock like iron around Moira’s ears, the deceptively soft skin of Brigitte’s thighs engulfing her ears. Moira is not strong enough to move the girl’s legs. This realization sends a bolt of arousal through her, crackling like electricity in her belly and cunt.

Brigitte’s cry of shock reverberates against Moira’s pussy as Moira mashes her cunt against Brigitte’s nose. Moira remembers too late that Brigitte took some blows to the face, but it’s nothing Moira can’t fix. If the pain is too much for Brigitte, she doesn’t show it: bless her, she sucks Moira’s clit like a champion.

Orgasm dawns on Moira in a crescendo of inner spasms as Brigitte’s thighs nearly pop her jaws out of alignment. She rides Brigitte’s face throughout her climax, clenching around the girl’s tongue and winding her hips in circles so that the entirety of her vagina sings in stimulation.

Moira’s cunt is still throbbing and dripping as she turns to the task of rewarding her gallant little knight for her service. As she strokes her fingertip over Brigitte’s g-spot, the girl’s ironclad thighs finally loosen from Moira’s ears, only to snap back stronger than ever as Moira couples her targeted fingering with tactical sweeps of her tongue over the flower of Brigitte’s pussy. Moira plays Brigitte from the inside out like a fine musical instrument, and Brigitte rewards her with a whimpering song that Moira is sure would be lovely, if she wasn’t selfishly muffling it with her cunt.

Brigitte is so exhausted in the wake of her climax that Moira can finally free her head from the girl’s substantial thighs. As Moira rolls off of Brigitte and sits up in bed, Brigitte lays supine, her limbs akimbo. Moira supposes that Brigitte does not require multiple orgasms to be satisfied.

Moira retrieves her electronic cigarette from the nightstand and inhales a cloud of highly concentrated nicotine vapor. When she exhales, the scent of milk tea floods the hotel room. She offers the e-cig to Brigitte.

“That stuff is bad for you,” Brigitte says. Little snot.

“It’s vapor,” grunts Moira. Has she just opened herself up to a lecture? This was definitely a mistake.

Brigitte has the matronly look of someone who knows what’s best, but to Moira’s surprise, she doesn’t pursue the argument. She slides closer to Moira and puts her head on Moira’s slim thigh. Moira’s bony leg is not nearly as soft a pillow as Brigitte’s would be, but Brigitte seems to enjoy it regardless. “This was fun,” says Brigitte. “Want to go again?”

 _Be still, my heart._ Moira takes another drag of vapor. She inflicts the nicotine on Brigitte’s lungs by hiding it in a kiss. Brigitte coughs, excessively, in Moira’s opinion, and exclaims in surprise at how good the flavor tastes. Moira will tempt the girl’s sweet tooth yet.

Of course, Moira is not a monster. Fragments of suppressed guilt circulate back into her mind when she reviews the events that brought Brigitte to her bed, especially as she follows Moira’s every command with earnest enthusiasm.

But as Brigitte kisses Moira, her mouth both sweet and salty with mingled vapor and the juice of Moira’s cunt, she is blissfully ignorant of anything but her burgeoning desire, her pulsating need. It would be cruel to take that away from such a nice girl, wouldn’t it? Yes, it absolutely would.

Moira tosses Brigitte down to the bed, using surprise to best the stronger woman. She grins triumphantly as Brigitte laughs, and Moira descends upon Brigitte’s fresh, leaking cunt.

If Moira can’t give Brigitte the truth, then she can at least give her the night of her life.


End file.
